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Dude Bro: Bro, Dude

Here's the thing:
Cis women never got too big on the “sir” or “mister” kick.
Young or old (especially not young, thank God),
they said it so rarely that it was an actual shock when they said it.
It is a different tale with men.
Many men are slaves to the binary;
they literally cannot converse without resorting to
Dude
Bro
Man
Sir
Mister
Pal
Buddy
Bud
and Brother,
Over
and over
and over again.
I have never been so humiliated.
They profess friendship just because they think I'm a man
(a dude, a brother)
(and probably, too, because I'm white).
If they knew the truth,
and they never knew me as anything but a woman,
the lectures would be longer.
The coupons would be wronger,
and the eyes would be looking me up and down like they were a child and I was a fucking Christmas Tree.
And if they knew I was a trans lady, well,
fuck.
I'd be screwed, hammered down with carpenter nails on the floor until I bled to death.
(That's not all of them, but c'mon,
I'm gonna live to 40.)
They avoid the women, the cis women.
They want to find solace in their bros.
They want freedom from women,
while also staring them down like that fucking child's Christmas tree.
Like the presents underneath.
They are scared like babies.
I am no one's brother.
Honestly now I'm not even sure if I'm anyone's sister.
(Even if that's more accurate.)
Let me walk in peace,
even if that means walking alone.
And please never disgust me,
butcher me,
or pollute me
with those heavy barbed synonyms again.
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